


I’ll Be Home For Christmas

by GregLestradeOwnsMyuwus



Series: Of crackers, hedgehogs, policemen and doctors [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Boyfriends, Boys In Love, Caring Mycroft Holmes, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Christmas Presents, Cute, Developing Greg Lestrade/John Watson, Established John Watson/Greg Lestrade, Fluff, Greg Lestrade In Love, Greg Lestrade is a Good Boyfriend, Greg Lestrade/John Watson at Christmas, Idiots in Love, John Watson In Love, John Watson Is Sad, Johnstrade, M/M, Pining, Secrets, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Being a Good Friend, Sherlock Holmes Gets Christmas Gifts, Sherlock Holmes Saves The Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:47:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28279344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GregLestradeOwnsMyuwus/pseuds/GregLestradeOwnsMyuwus
Summary: Oh, the weather outside is frightfulBut the fire is so delightfulAnd since we've no place to goLet it snow, let it snow, let it snowMan, it doesn't show signs of stoppingAnd I've brought some corn for poppingThe lights are turned way down lowLet it snow, let it snow, let it snow
Relationships: Greg Lestrade/John Watson, Molly Hooper & Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper & John Watson, Molly Hooper/Original Male Character, Mrs. Hudson & Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson
Series: Of crackers, hedgehogs, policemen and doctors [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018699
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	1. But It's Christmas!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there everyone! It's Christmas Eve here where I'm from and I thought it would be nice to gift to you lot the gift of some Christmas Johnstrade Fluff :3. I was inspired by [this](https://www.instagram.com/p/CHLefKLlkVO/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) Instagram post that I came across recently. I hope you love reading it as much as I did writing it! As usual, please feel free to comment and give kudos!

John sighed into his pillow. He was used to the feeling of some weight next to him and a warm detective spooning him from the back. But today, and for the past week now, John had woken up cold and alone. It didn’t help that it was December and the temperatures were frigid. It would have cheered him up oh so very much if Greg was here to just cuddle with him in bed—even if only to keep him warm-ish.

Greg had been posted to a conference down in Paris a week ago and was scheduled to be back three days before Christmas, but a freak snowstorm meant that he was stranded in Paris until the day after. Needless to say, John was devastated since it was supposed to be their first spent together. Since he got the call last night, John had been moping about a bit too much even for his own liking.

“But it‘s Christmas!” John had protested into the phone like a child when Greg called him from Paris.

“I know love, I know. And I’m trying everything I can to get back to London before it happens but trains are all booked and renting a car isn’t much of an option if the planes are grounded now is it?” Greg tried to calm John down but he was rather unhappy himself and two unhappy men-children was not exactly what one would call a calming mix. “Look on the bright side John, the airline gave me some money for a phone plan so I went ahead and got myself some data too. We can video call as much as you want, I’ll charge it to the airline and the Yard if I can.”

Greg tried to sound cheery for John but he knew too that John was really looking forward to this particular Christmas. John reluctantly agreed to Greg’s feeble attempt at a plan and said his goodbyes before hanging up. Sherlock had deduced everything that had happened over the call just based off the fact that John had not worn the sweater that Greg had gotten him and he linked it back to John’s lack of Greg and hence his subconscious decision to keep all items that reminded him of Greg away to prevent his loneliness and emotions creeping back up on him. While none of that was even remotely wrong, it had nearly earned Sherlock a teapot to the face from John who would have succeeded had Mrs Hudson not come in to yell “Oi that’s **my** bloody teapot, throw one of your own if you must!”

And now here John was the morning after, still suffering from a decidedly unsatisfactory lack of a detective inspector. Pulling himself out of his usually warm and cosy bed, he forced himself to shower, brush his teeth and get changed. If he didn’t start tea soon Sherlock would and as cold as it was, a fire in the kitchen was most definitely not welcome right now. John trooped down the stairs, making more noise than usual to signal is grumpiness. Before he reached the end of the stairs, Sherlock’s voice rang out across the flat.

“Tea, John. Now in case you need a deadline.” John let out a sigh and walked to the kitchen with a purpose: the drink that ran through every Englishman and Englishwoman—tea. He busied himself with the boiling water and the tea bags, adding a touch of honey to Sherlock’s cup and some sugar to his own. He had to physically stop himself from preparing a mug full of coffee for a Greg that wasn’t around. He was just accustomed to having Greg around for breakfast sometimes and as strange as it was, the lack of his presence made John want to all the more prepare his share. John buttered two slices of toast and spread honey on another two while the kettle whistled. He brought it out to the table where Sherlock was seated, rocks in front of him which he examined with a magnifying glass. 

Wordlessly, John set out the breakfast beside Sherlock’s rocks and went with his own food to the chair in front of the telly. John wrapped himself in a large, cosy blanket that he usually shared with Greg when they watched movies and ate his toast.

“John stop it,” came Sherlock’s command from behind him. John put down his empty plate and turned behind to look at Sherlock quizzically. He hadn’t so much as looked up but that wasn’t anything new.

“Stop what?” John asked, sipping his tea loudly just to be petty. He wasn’t feeling to chirpy today and he wanted to let his frustration out somehow. If he couldn't sit in silence without irritating Sherlock then he sure as hell was going to drink tea annoyingly.

“Well, now I’d highly appreciate you not sipping your tea so loud. That’s just basic manners. But, I would also like for you to not sulk so loudly. It’s distracting _and_ frankly speaking painful to watch.”

“You’re not even _looking_ at me!”

“I don’t need to _look_ to see what pathetic looks like John. And your thinking is too loud. I need quiet to focus. Maybe you could join Mrs Hudson downstairs to mope, that would be very helpful.” Sherlock sounded bitter for some reason. Usually he just sounded snarky and John would have ignored him. But today he sounded positively irritated by John and seemed to want him gone. Was Anderson around? Had that fool snuck in somehow and triggered Sherlock’s “Anderson senses” or something? John huffed and took his tea downstairs along with his blanket and made sure to slam the door _and_ storm down the stairs to make some noise.

Once he heard John’s voice downstairs grumbling to Mrs Hudson about what a prick he was, Sherlock finally looked up and away from his rocks. John probably didn’t even know they weren’t rocks, rather they were just crumpled pieces of paper that had been shaded by a pencil to resemble rocks. Sherlock had just been interested in the graphite used in the pencil for documentary purposes.

He sat up straighter in his chair and looked at his phone. He knew exactly how to get John to stop acting like a child, yet he couldn’t do it alone. He was going to need help. Mrs Hudson was already in, no question. Molly would have agreed too, not for Sherlock but for John. Lestrade didn’t need to be consulted, Sherlock would just deal with him. That left one final person. Sherlock let out a sigh and looked at his phone. _For John_. He picked up his phone and crafted a text out.

_Come at once if convenient. If not convenient, come all the same. —SH_

The phone on the table beeped with a response.

_Already there brother mine._ _—_ _MH_

Sherlock stood up and walked out of the flat, grabbing his coat as he did. He made his way down the stairs silently and snuck past Mrs Hudson's door where he managed to pick up some of their conversation. John had been drinking, definitely courtesy of Mrs Hudson.

"And then he tells me to stop moping around! He even said I looked pathetic! Honestly Mrs Hudson, can you believe his nerve?" John was positively upset. Good. For his plan to work, John would need to be upset enough to need a distraction. Sherlock stepped outside into the cold, frigid winter air and into a waiting black Audi. Inside, his brother sat sipping a cup of tea.

"Mycroft." Sherlock gave his brother a quick nod in greeting.

"Sherlock," Mycroft nodded back at Sherlock, "to business then. What shall I have to do for you younger brother." He set his teacup down and crossed his legs, fingers interlocked.

"I believe you are aware of the snowstorm in France, specifically Paris and the airport," Sherlock began.

"Indeed I am. And a bit of snow is the topic of discourse today because?"

"I'm going to need government transport. To and fro by midnight tonight," Sherlock demanded from Mycroft, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. The older Holmes sat upright and tilted his head sideways, giving Sherlock a thorough look over.

"And I would do well to assume this is of the utmost importance?" Mycroft asked dryly.

"National importance I might say. Your detective inspector is stuck in Paris and a certain doctor of mine is rather unhappy about this fact." Mycroft nodded his head in understanding. Trivial as it was, John Watson was a dear friend of Sherlock and if Sherlock had wanted help, Mycroft would move Buckingham Palace for him if so requested.

"Understood brother mine. And this detective inspector of ours, would he happen to also be the one whose name you refuse to remember?” Mycroft asked Sherlock, the pieces falling together.

“On the contrary, I do indeed know his name. Lestrade. One hardly needs to bother with a first name given his unique identitifying characteristic of a rather Francophone surname,” Sherlock retorted, “So I expect a car here soon. No need for any preparation whatsoever. Myself would be more than adequate.”

The tone of Sherlock’s voice signalled to Mycroft that the conversation was over. Not that Mycroft had an intention to negotiate further now that he knew he was doing this for John’s sake and not Sherlock’s.

“Consider it done brother mine.” Sherlock merely gave his brother a curt nod before stepping out of the car and into the café below their flat to grab a hot latte to go. It was going to be a long journey down to Paris and a hot drink would make the weather that much more bearable. Inside the flat, Mrs Hudson had gotten out her best whiskey to cheer John up, or at least make him a more bearable sop.

"Now dear, I'm quite sure I don't need to remind you what kind of a person Sherlock is now do I? We both know he's not one for, delicate conversation. Don't take his words to heart John, he hasn't the slightest bit of a filter and you know it as well as I do," Mrs Hudson said while pouring John a third shot. John had started feeling rather warm and sleepy at this time and his mind had drifted back to why Sherlock was being such a.... _dick_. But his mind was filled more with the unhappiness of not having Greg around more than it was with the anger at Sherlock and that meant that he needed to take another shot to drown out his mind. He took the glass offered by Mrs Hudson and tossed his head back, taking in the alcohol all at once. It burned his mouth and continued to all the way down his throat, sliding down his oesophagus and into his stomach. God Mrs Hudson had some good whiskey.

"You're quite Mrs Hudson. But now if you'll excuse me your whiskey is starting to take effect on me and if its alright with you I'll be heading up to bed now." John stood up rather too quickly and this earned him a faint spell of light-headedness and everything going white. He found it rather ironic that his mind chose to go white and not black so as to keep up with the holiday spirit. He swayed on the spot for several seconds, silently giggling to himself. Mrs Hudson was positively worried by now.

"Maybe next time some food before your emotional drinking dear? I have a wonderful mincemeat pie that's perfect for angry hearts and good whiskey. Come on, I'll get you up the stairs. One foot in front of the other and that's how we do it." Mrs Hudson took a hold of John's right hand and wrapped it around her own miniature frame and used her left to steady John's waist. For a small man, John was rather bulky and Mrs Hudson's kitchen fully covered in fine china meant that it was a bull in the china shop situation. Frankly, Mrs Hudson was more worried about her nice plates being broken by a drunk doctor than she was about getting John up to his flat.

"No dear not there. That's an expensive teapot and I quite like it. Over here with the plastics is good." Mrs Hudson dragged John away from the tea set and out the door, towards the flight of stairs.

"Really Mrs Hudson, I can do this. They're just some stairs. I've climbed mountains before. I'm a soldier, I can do this." John slurred his words and attempted to take a step up. He didn't feel himself move at all. If he had a third person's point of view, he would've seen that all he had done was take a step closer to the first step. They had barely gotten onto the landing.

"Right and I can run a marathon while doing gymnastics for the queen. Left foot up John. That's it, now forward. No the other forward." Mrs Hudson sighed. It was going to be a long morning getting him up the stairs. Eventually, they managed to make their way to the landing where Mrs Hudson promptly abandoned John to his own fate. As much as she cared for the doctor, he could handle himself, and she was tired too. It was painful hearing John complain about Sherlock drunk. It didn't help that John was partial to a bit of shouting when he was pissed.

John stood in front of the sink, looking at himself. He wasn't drunk. No. Definitely was not. He was going to touch his nose to prove it. He raised a finger and positioned it in front of his face and went forwards. _Poke._ No that was his cheek. Once more. _Poke._ No, now that was his lip. Third time's the charm don't they say. _Poke._

"Ow! Bloody _idiot_!" John screamed at the mirror. He had missed even more this time and his fingernail had gone straight at his eye, nearly blinding himself in the process. John hung his head in defeat and slumped over the sink, turning the faucet on to wash his face. The water refreshed him a little bit. He eventually gave up trying to sober up and collapsed back onto the sofa. As he stretched out, he had flashbacks to the last time Greg was around Baker Street. They had been lounging around on this sofa. Greg was sitting up right and John was spread out in his lap. They had been watching some rather god awful telly and Greg had been enjoying it a little too much. John teased him about it and that earned him a knock on the head from Greg.

Being a soldier, John refused to go down without a fight and he immediately sat up straight to pull Greg in for a playful fight. The two had gone on for a few minutes, pulling and lightly shoving one another before Greg managed to pin John down on the sofa, straddling his hips. At this pivotal moment, Sherlocked had walked in and told them to "not spread your semen all over my favourite chair". This made both of them blush in embarrassment at the thought, something which Sherlock had enjoyed tremendously.

"Didn't know you were capable of going red at the ears Gavin," Sherlock had suggested.

"It's Greg. After half the year with John I'd expect that you would've bothered to learn my name; if not for me for John," Greg retorted as he had gotten up from on top of John, straightening his shirt as he did.

"Come on now boys, don't fight over little old me." John couldn't resist not joining in on their conversation. This comment earned him a full mouth to mouth kiss from Greg. Sherlock let out a sound, only god understanding what he was trying to convey, and walked out of the living room into the kitchen to fetch himself his forgotten cup of tea. Greg could have sworn he heard a faint "simpletons" under Sherlock's breath but he knew Sherlock didn't feel at all hostile against him nor his relationship with John.

"Look John. No one will fight over you, because you're mine and I intend to keep it that way for a nice long time. Hear me lad?" Greg smiled wryly at John who could only smile back equally sheepishly. John leaned in to give his boyfriend another kiss, this time on the cheek to signal that he had gotten the message.

"Loud and clear detective."

John sniffled a little at the memory. It must've been the alcohol. Darn Mrs Hudson's drug ring money and her amazing taste in whiskey. _Whiskey_. That brought back another set of happily painful memories. Whiskey was Greg's favourite intoxicating beverage and John had been hesitant to try it up until Greg all but forced him to have a shot. He remembered it rather clearly in fact. They had been at the pub, celebrating their three month's anniversary—something which Sherlock had sneered at, saying that statistically speaking most relationships ended between 3-5 months and they should start counting down, but come along in support anyways. John was on his third pint of the evening and had gone with Greg to get some crisps for the three of them. At the bar, Greg had added on a shot of Macallan to go with the crisps and John had visibly flinched.

"What's the matter doctor? Not man enough for a shot?" Greg had teased him playfully, nudging his side as he did so.

"I'd prefer not to burn my throat thanks. I've never tried it anyways," John had replied rather sheepishly. He'd always been more partial to several pints rather than shots. Greg huffed in disbelief. No way he was letting John stick to puny old pints.

“Mate, put another two shots on the tab,” Greg called out to the bartender before turning to John, “We’re here to celebrate our anniversary and that means celebrating a new us. I say that calls for you to try something new.” John didn’t protest. Greg was a long time whiskey fan and if there was anyone who he trusted enough to teach him to drink, it would be Greg.

The bartender set out three shots and four packets of crisps in front of the men.

“Mate i think you’ve given us an extra two bags. We only ordered two.” John pushed back the extra crisps to the bartender. The man gave him a smile and slid them back across to John.

“They’re on the house mate. One for you and your man. Happy anniversary,” the bartender said with a wink and a slight nudge of John’s hand. John blushed a little, suddenly realising how people could hear them.

“Ta. That’s nice of you.” John grabbed their orders and left to return to their table, Greg railing along with a shot in each hand. When they got back to the table, Sherlock had immediately deduced what had happened, to no one’s surprise of course.

“He was most definitely flirting with you John. He took one look at Greg and decided that he couldn’t give you what he thought you needed, though surprisingly Greg does put out rather well,” Sherlock explained as he took a sip of his beer.

“Alright now enough of that nonsense. Now John, all you do is you pick up the glass like so,” Greg started as he lifted up his shot dramatically, “and you knock it all the way down. Helps to tilt your head.” He finished by downing the shot like a seasoned drinker, complete with the dramatic head tilts and slamming down of the shot glass. “It burns a little going down but don’t fight it, just let it slide. You’ll feel like a dragon.”

“Lestrade please, taking a shot of whiskey hardly can be equated with a fictitious fire breathing dragon.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, signalling wordlessly to both of them that he was disapproving of Greg’s intelligence. Of course Sherlock wouldn’t say it out loud to Greg now that he and John were established; it wasn’t that he didn’t want to offend John nor Greg—it’s been rather well established that offence is part of the Sherlock name—but rather he had too much respect for both men to disrespect them together. Greg ignored Sherlock as he usually did and nudged John on. John took a deep breath before picking up his glass.

"Come on John, I'll do one with you if that helps," Lestrade offered, grabbing the remaining shot, "On three then. One. Two. _Three._ " The men downed their shots together, with Sherlock shaking his head in dismay. He had already calculated that John would last no longer than a literal minute before starting to feel tipsy. As the whiskey slid down his throat, John forced his eyes shut and held it in his mouth.

_Greg was right_ , he thought to himself. Then again Greg was usually right about a lot of things. It hit John really quickly. First was the heat he felt, welling up within him. Then he started to break out in sweat, even though it was cold in the pub. When he stood up to use the toilet, the dizziness set in and he could barely walk straight. Then he felt sleepy.

"Greg," John called out, reaching an arm out to feel for him. A pair of hands went around his waist and held him steady. He felt a warm breath of air on the nape of his neck and someone's lips on his temple.

"Hush now, I've got you. You probably shouldn't take anymore shots though." Greg laughed and rubbed John's arm. John shook his head defiantly, the alcohol giving him more courage to be stupid.

"No. I can take it. Come on, let me at it!" John challenged the blank space in front of him, arms extended.

"I'm behind you love. And that is good proof why you shouldn't do any more shots." John was ignoring Greg, already picking up another shot from the table. His intoxication meant that his movements were rather slow and that Greg could swoop in and drink the whiskey before John had even processed that the glass was out of his hand.

"Oi mates! Put a show on for us!" came a loud voice from the crowd opposite them. It didn't sound threatening, more playful and coaxing in fact. Greg turned to look at them. They were a group of young teens, likely still in uni. A good mix of boys and girls. They shouldn't be trying to start trouble. After all, this generation was the most welcoming of them all. Still, Greg didn't exactly like flaunting his affection for John at every waking moment.

"Sure!" John drunkenly yelled back, louder than necessary. He seemed to have caught on to the fact that he was shouting and giggled to himself. "Greg did you hear that? I shouted." John found it oddly amusing. Greg on the other hand wasn't too tickled by his drunk boyfriend. Sherlock had disappeared for a while, last Greg saw of him was at the bar where he was deducing the origins of each beer they had and who was the bartender the night before that had mixed up the labels. Greg patted John on the arm, getting his attention.

"Maybe we shouldn't do this here John," Greg had started to try and reason with him but John cut him off way before he could get his point out.

"Aw Greg are you shy? You heard him lads. He's a shy one! Give him some encouragement!" John called out to the original group of students that had called for them to snog. They whooped back and yelled encouragement warmly at Greg. Eventually, they had build up a chant consisting of solely the words "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!". Greg looked around nervously and saw that most people in the pub were smiling at the scene.

_Maybe this isn't so bad,_ Greg thought to himself. He then looked at John, who had managed to wiggle out of his grasp to stand facing him, his classic grin on his face.

"What the hell. Your lucky you're pretty John." Greg pulled John in closer and kissed him with maximum mouth to mouth contact. He heard excited whoops and cheers from behind and beside them and decided to rile the crowd up even more. Lightly kicking John's legs, he dipped John down and kissed him bridal style for the energetic crowd who burst out in applause. Greg pulled away, blushing hard at the warm reception and pulled John up. John poked Greg on the nose and smiled.

"See? You just needed a little encouragement."

John banished the memory to the back of his mind. While no doubt that night had been fantastic, with their episode in bed later making it even more memorable in spite of the alcohol, John didn't have the policeman to recount it with now and thinking of it himself only made him unhappy. Eventually, John drifted off to a deep sleep.

Hours later, John was woken up by the sound of the door slamming. Slamming open or closed, he couldn't tell exactly but it had slammed nonetheless. He sat up on the couch and realised that there was a soft fabric wrapped around him. He picked it up and realised it was the blanket he had left downstairs. Then, the scent hit him. John sniffed the air in disbelief. That wasn't possible. It just couldn't be. John brought the blanket up to his nose and took a deep breath in. But it was. That was the exact smell of Greg's cologne. Strong and earthy, just like Greg liked it. John threw the blanket aside and ran into the kitchen where the light was on, calling out loudly.

"Greg? Greg? Is that you Greg?" John burst into the kitchen to see a Sherlock sorting out several containers filled with only god knows what and the microwave open. John didn't even want to ask, he knew better than to investigate Sherlock's experiments. Frankly, John didn't really want to see Sherlock right now. He just wasn't in the mood to deal with him right now.

“Oh good you’re awake. Did the blanket help prevent hypothermia?” Sherlocked asked John, bitterness and spite all gone. John stopped in his tracks and processed Sherlock's words for a moment. So, did he want John gone just now? But, when he came back Sherlock wasn't around either. So why was Sherlock acting even more dickish than usual? "And no, Lestrade isn't back. Still stuck down in Paris it would seem."

John's heart sank at Sherlock's words. He was so very sure that Greg was back and had put the blanket around him like he always did in the middle of the night when he woke up. John had a nasty habit of kicking the duvet away and when Greg slept over he dutifully remedied it. John opened his mouth to question Sherlock and before he could do it, Sherlock beat him to it, not that it was a surprise anymore.

"Yes I did put the blanket around you. Mrs Hudson gave it back to me while I was coming up and I wasn't in the mood to see you freeze over. That should be saved for a day when you're less miserable of a subject. And yes I also put a splash of Lestrade's cologne over the blanket before I put you in it. Thought that it would make you "feel better" as Mrs Hudson suggested I try." Sherlock didn't look up as he said all this, poking and prodding at the microwave.

"Well, it kind of did, so, thanks mate. Now what are you doing to our poor microwave? If you're experimenting on it could you hold off until boxing day when I get a new one to replace it?" John walked up next to Sherlock, peering eagerly at what he was doing like a small child.

"Actually I'm trying to reheat some dinner. Mrs Hudson prepared this for us and she wouldn't let me leave unless they were in my hands. So, pie or roast?" Sherlock explained rather flatly. John raised his eyebrow quizzically at Sherlock. Now he was acting weird. Then again, there wasn't much of a normal for Sherlock. John shook his head to dispel some sleepiness and decided on some pie. He headed off to the shower to freshen up before having some dinner. While he was in the shower, John decided that he had been rather childish today. After all, it wasn't Sherlock's fault that Greg was stuck in Paris and he didn't deserve to have John take out his temper on him even if Sherlock was more immune to it than most people were. Washing the soap off his body, John resigned to giving Sherlock an apology later over their dinner. He had to remember to get Mrs Hudson something nice too, in addition to the little box of imported tea that he had gotten her last week.

John shut the water off and stepped out of the shower, wrapping himself up in a fluffy, white bathrobe. He towelled his hair dry and was in the middle of putting on his clothes when the large rectangular box on his dressing table caught his eye. It was a set of 25 different tasting bottles of whiskey for Greg that John had spied on sale recently. He had gone to great lengths to hide it considering Greg came by rather often but since the news of his being stuck in Paris had broken, John stopped his rotating hide and seek game with himself and simply left it on his table. The merry wrapping paper was next to it, forgotten and neglected.

John sat down in front of his boyfriend's gift and wrapped it up neatly. He had been doing this for several years now and was rather apt at it. In fact his mum had boasted during family Christmases that John could've gone down the easy road and become a Christmas gift wrapper and only work holidays rather than be a full time soldier. Adding a little gold bow on the top, John attached a small note for Greg. Greg was fond of tiny gestures like this; the times that he found a little note or trinket from John were some of John's favourites as Greg's face would light up and he was smiles all around. It always put a spring in his step and even on bad days, Greg's frown would at least soften somewhat to a flat line. In his surprisingly neat penmanship, John penned out a message for his boyfriend.

_Dearest Greg, this may be a little late but the contents should make up for it. In fact, I'd wager that you'd be too pissed to remember it was late this year. Cheers to our first Christmas together and here's to looking forward to our next. Love, John._ _♥_ _:)_

Picking it up, John planted a quick kiss on the smiley face. He knew it was silly of him but he felt that Greg would be able to feel it when he read the note. Tucking it under his arm, John walked downstairs to join Sherlock for some of Mrs Hudson's pie. The delicious smell of the buttery crust wafted from the kitchen and it mingled heavenly with the peppery beef that she was so fond of stuffing into her pies. It smelled exactly like home. John gently placed the wrapped red and green box on the coffee table and left it as it was. He would send Greg a picture later.

John walked back to the kitchen and sat down at the table where Sherlock had already laid out two plates of the pie and had set out two glasses of wine for them too. He looked quizzically at Sherlock and then back at the food in front of them.

"What?" Sherlock asked curtly before turning to fish for the cutlery from an opened drawer.

"Nothing. I just didn't know you could set a table," John replied, taking a seat. Sherlock rolled his eyes at John and scoffed, sitting down on a chair of his own.

"I'm not a savage John." John smiled at Sherlock, taking a bite of Mrs Hudson's pie. It was fantastic, as expected. Mrs Hudson really could do wonders in that little oven of hers. John chewed his food as Sherlock sat and cut his own up into bite sized pieces. The doctor had decided that now was as good a time as any for an apology. John set his fork down on the plate and dabbed at his mouth with a tissue.

"Sherlock-" John had attempted to start out with his apology when Sherlock interrupted him.

"If you are attempting an apology John please feel free to dismiss it. There's no need for one. I might not understand matter of the heart that you ordinary people are always so caught up in, but I understand that this matter of the heart is of particular importance to you. And I did expect such an outburst from you at such news, so I was more than adequately prepared to tide through it. Now eat John, and stop gaping. That's just basic table manners."

John couldn't honestly say that he was surprised by Sherlock's words, but he did have to admit that he was just a little bit touched. Sherlock was always rather odd about John and Greg's relationship, neither approving nor berating it but just in the side lines of it. But here, Sherlock clearly stated that he knew how important it, and Greg, were to John; and for that sole reason Sherlock was willing to move mountains for them. John allowed himself a small smile and sat back to relax for the night.

The two of them enjoyed themselves on this very merry Christmas Eve, John a little more than Sherlock. It should be noted however, that Sherlock had indeed spiked John's drink. It wasn't anything more than to make him loosen up and be less focused on his emotions but it worked like a charm. John had nearly forgotten the situation with Greg and was happily drinking the night away. John was his usual, giggly drunk self and Sherlock was rather pleased with the outcome. Everything was as he needed it to be.

"Thanks for this Sherlock. I know you can't do this much but it really would be so lovely if Greg was here. At least in spirit. Maybe I should call him?" John had already started to dial Greg's number (two digits being wrong however due to his alcohol intake) when Sherlock snatched the phone away from his fingers.

"None of that now. You promised him a call on Christmas Day and not a minute sooner, a soldier always holds up his end of a bargain now don't you John?" Sherlock left John's phone on the mantel, away from his reach. Now, John hadn't actually promised Greg this but Sherlock's secret extra in John's glass also made him rather suggestible.

"Did I now? Must've slipped my mind then."

Close to midnight, John had started to feel sleepy. Heavy even. His arms felt like they weighed thousands of kilograms and his legs wouldn't cooperate any more. As Sherlock had planned, the drug took effect on John and made him fall asleep right there on the sofa. His half finished glass of wine sat at the coffee table which Sherlock promptly poured down the drain before going back to check on John. Running a few mental tests, Sherlock certified that John was indeed sound asleep before he went off to set his plan in motion. Of course it would work out. He was Sherlock Holmes after all. Slipping out of the door quietly, Sherlock took one last look at John who was now snoring rather loudly. He decided to throw the blanket over him once more, this time without the addition of Greg's scent, and closed the door behind him.

"Merry Christmas John. I just need to fetch your gift now so you stay here and have a good long kip."


	2. It's The Most Wonderful Time of The Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning lovelies! A very Merry Christmas to every one who's celebrating today! I hope you like this second part :)

John didn't remember waking up, but now that he was he felt positively giddy. He couldn't remember what had happened after his third glass of wine and second slice of pie with Sherlock, but that didn't matter at all now. He was in Greg's arms, with a warm hand running through his hair. He could feel Lestrade's warm breath on his neck and his soft kiss complimenting it. Greg's dark brown eyes were the colour of hot chocolate and they seemed to sparkle with excitement. John allowed himself to enjoy the moment, but it was just that. A small, fleeting moment that was permitted before reality snatched it away violently.

"John! Wake up John! Now!" Sherlock's voice thundered throughout the living room. It jolted John awake and back to reality. He rubbed his eyes unwillingly. It had been a dream. A cruel, sweet dream. But for a fleeting moment he was in Greg's strong arms again and it was something for which he was grateful for. By the time John had snapped himself to his senses, Sherlock was already within an inch of his face, panting breathlessly. He looked as if he had been running. That's when John noticed the windows. The curtains were drawn but the sky outside was still rather dark, the first slivers of sunlight penetrating through and falling decoratively onto their floor.

"Sherlock," John looked around foggily, "what's the sodding time? And why are you all up in my face screaming?" Sherlock grabbed his hand and pulled him up. The blanket fell off and hit the floor silently. The sudden movement caused John to immediately wake up completely and he was met by the look of urgency on Sherlock's face.

"Case. Now. But I need to send you. It's urgent so do not ask questions. There's been a disappearance. A man. Unremarkable. Plain. Common. Ordinary. But his lover's distraught, he kept insisting that I find him. Obviously it was too boring for me and I clearly have more important and interesting cases but I couldn't physically make him leave so I promised him that my best man would be on the job and that means you John. Now, here's an address. It's a café that the man frequented. Go hunt around and see where it all takes you." John blinked at Sherlock blankly. He needed a moment to process this. As Sherlock had described brains as hard drives, John's was currently running like an old 2012 one.

Eventually this was all John could come up with.

"Did you even breathe saying all that?"

"No, but if you don't get out there this man may not be breathing soon so chop chop John." Sherlock dragged John by the arm towards his bedroom. "Now hurry up, get dressed and go solve a disappearance." John did as he was told, though still a little clueless as to what was going on since he had been denied the chance of some tea and a breakfast. Simply moving through the motions, John found himself seated in the backseat of a taxi that Sherlock had called for him and soon arrived at the café. From the description outside, it seemed to be French owned and prided itself on its coffees and sandwiches. John felt his tummy rumble a little, signalling that it wasn't about to go hungry for a day.

The opening of the door was accompanied by the chime of a bell and John was greeted by a man in his mid-thirties dressed in a black t shirt and a pair of jeans. A waiter probably. A quick scan of the shop showed John that he was the only customer around. He was probably the first too considering the time.

"Hi. I'm investigating a disappearance, for Sherlock Holmes? I was given this address, the man supposedly was last seen here?" John took out his notepad as he was questioning the man. Upon the utterance of Sherlock's name, the man's face shifted. He seemed to recognise the name. Though, that wouldn't be much of a surprise considering the media attention that Sherlock already had.

" _Oui_. Monsieur Sherlock had called ahead to tell me that you were coming," The man replied in a thick French accent. He gestured to the empty cafe, "He said that we should let you snoop around and see what you can find." John nodded and smiled at the man, opening his mouth for thanks when his stomach decided to file a complaint once more surrounding its undesirable emptiness. This time however, it had a louder voice; loud enough to catch the attention of the  
Frenchman.

"Sorry about that. Haven't had a chance to grab breakfast this morning," John explained and smiled wearily at the man. The waiter waved his hand in dismissal.

"No issue to me. Come. Sit. You're in a café, no reason to go hungry. Breakfast is on the house," The man offered, pulling a chair out for John at a table nearby.

"Right. Thanks mate. It said outside that your sandwiches were good?" John enquired. The man gave a dramatic French chef's kiss in response.

"Best ones outside of France. _Croque Monsieur_? You look like you need cheese and and meat." John merely nodded at the man's suggestion. "Coffee too?" John didn't really drink coffee but he felt that if he was going to get through this case, on Christmas day, without Greg, he was going to need something stronger than tea. While his (free) breakfast was being prepared, John took the time to scan through his surroudings, looking for any clues that could be sitting right under his nose. And of course, he wouldn't have any luck. He was no Sherlock Holmes, that was for sure.

The man brought out a tray with John's food and set it before him. John took a sip of the coffee and closed his eyes. Strong, dark and slightly sweet with a touch of milk. It was how Greg liked his coffee. Drinking it, John felt warm and close to Greg for some reason.

"So, tell me about our missing man. Do you know anything about him?" John asked the waiter who had also sat down at the table.

"He is Monsieur Dais. Not French of course but I prefer monsieur to mister. He came in almost every day to have what you're having. In fact, he liked his coffee in that way too. I made it for you like that because I thought it might help you think like him." The waiter gestured to John's food as he described this Dais man.

"Right, so he was a regular," John repeated out loud as he scribbled onto his notepad, "And did he have a routine of sorts? Same order each time?" The man nodded and pointed to the high seat. John hated those things. He could never really climb up properly. Once he had to have Greg basically carry him onto the seat. That drew a queer look from the owner of the restaurant but nothing was said to them directly.

"Everyday he sits there. We once asked him if he would like a special chair for himself. But yesterday, he didn't go for the high chair. Instead, he went to that table over there." He pointed to the other end of the café at a corner table. On it, were a pile of perfectly shaped cubes. They were small, dark and smooth. John finished his coffee and stood up to inspect further.

"Monsieur Dais left these here when he left. I didn't notice it until he was gone. He had mentioned needing to top up his liquor cabinet at home." John picked up one of the cubes. It felt cold in his hand. He turned it around and at the bottom of the cube, he saw an inscription. It read _Jim's Whiskey Hut_. There was an address underneath it.

"I reckon," John started as he walked back to the table to fetch something for the cubes, "he went here. These are whiskey stones. He's a fan I suppose." _Just like Greg_. Though that last part didn't come out. John stuffed the remainder of his sandwich into his mouth and ran outside to call for a taxi, stopping only to thank the waiter for his meal.

The cab stopped outside a dark coloured storefront. John handed the cabbie his fare and stepped out, stones in hand wrapped in a plastic baggie. This time, the door slid open for him rather than having a bell announce his arrival. John was greeted by a small, dark shop with shelves and shelves lined with whiskey and other liquors. Greg would've let out an excited little yelp. As he made his way to the back, he heard the faint voices of conversation. One of them seemed familiar.

"No no, I simply must have this bottle. You don't understand Frank, it's Christmas! I simply shan't be able to celebrate without it." It was Mycroft. John turned a corner and was greeted by the sight of him conversing with a glasses-wearing, pot bellied man who was behind the counter. The other man was holding a bottle filled with a dark, molasses coloured liquid, extended out towards Mycroft. John's quiet entrance hadn't yet drawn attention to himself and he thought it best to let the men settle whatever they needed to before he interrupted.

But, his plan was dashed by the man talking to Mycroft who suddenly noticed the small doctor and decided to use him as an escape means.

"Yes sir! How might I be of service to you today? Any special spirits for the holiday?" The man barked out, clearly wanting to avoid Mycroft.

"Ah, John. Fancy seeing you here. I thought that your detective inspector was the whiskey aficionado among you two." Mycroft turned around to acknowledge John's presence. John mentally rolled his eyes. It seemed like the universe was out to get him, remind him of Greg at every step.

"Normally he would be. But I'm here on a case for Sherlock. The Disappearing Dais as I plan to call it on my blog. I've just come from a little French coffee shop and I found these stones," John said, handing the plastic baggie over to the man he presumed to be the owner, "and they led me here. I presume that you're Jim?" He directed his question to behind the counter. The man, Jim, nodded in affirmation. He rummaged through the bag and dug out one of the cubes.

"Mr Dais's stones. These are a rare beauty sir. Handcrafted in France itself. He only used it with his favourite whiskey. An elusive mix of itself. I sold it to him exclusively. Bloody pain it was to get it too, but he paid well." Jim had started to explain. John nodded, deciding to forgo his notes altogether.

"Right, and he's gone missing recently. Could you tell me anything about him? Anything at all? Was he acting strangely the last time you saw him?" Jim thought for a moment before his face lit up.

"He always did wear this cologne. Strong stuff it was. Which was quite a coincidence considering I go through this cologne store owner to get his special whiskey. But when he came in yesterday, he wasn't wearing it. None of it! Not a trace to be sniffed! God I was relieved. It didn't smell bad or anything, but it was a bit much to take for years on end. Anyways, yesterday I couldn't get a chance to have his orders ready. He had some big Christmas party going on and he needed loads of his drink ready. We had a little bit of an argy-bargy and he huffed off to find my supplier. He said he thinks he could talk some sense into him. And after that I haven't heard from him since. I wish I could be more help to you, I really do. But alas I cannot be of such service."

"Well, you might be able to, if you divulged your supplier to me." John leaned onto the counter. This statement was met with resistance by Jim. He put his hands on the counter and leaned in towards John.

"Right mate, sorry but I'm afraid I won't be doing any such thing. Mr Dais might pay a handsome sum for what my supplier gives but that isn't the only reason he supplies it. If this stuff were to get out, crowds would be swarming him for it. Crowds!" Jim looked insane. Then again, nothing was ever really normal about Sherlock's cases. Even if they were boring enough to warrant a solo mission for John.

"Well now Jim. You may not be able to divulge this information to dear Watson here, but this phone in my hand can. Dr Watson you should be looking for a Mr Banks who owns Banks' Scents and Smells. The address is in your messages." Mycroft suddenly piped up, smiling slyly at Jim. Jim looked positively irritated by now. Before anyone else could stop him, John hurriedly exited the store and hopped into a passing cab, reciting the address that Mycroft had sent him. He needed to remember to thank Mycroft for this too. John looked at his phone to see if Greg had sent him any updates. He hadn't. John felt a little upset but reminded himself that Greg didn't have access to data in Paris and he probably was aching to call John now. John checked the time. It was slightly past two. His running around had made him forget the time.

The next shop was of a different atmosphere. It's store front was wittily decorated by an artsy eye using old cologne and perfume bottles shaped like orbs which hung around the jolly Christmas tree that was behind the window. Outside on the front door, a ring of holly was attached with the words "Happy Holidays" hanging underneath in red letters. They were all handmade and intricately done. It reminded John of his days in primary school where his classmates and him would gather round using old recycled materials to craft out decorations for the classroom. It was one of John's favourite activities come the holidays and though Greg never really cared too much for them, he was always a good sport and helped out whenever he could.

Upon entering the store, John found that some fake snow fell down from the ceiling and landed onto his head. This man must've loved the holiday season to go all out. He almost forgot that he was in an aromatics store; the place was more akin to a toy store or one selling decorations. Turning a corner, he nearly ran into a mousy, petite lady.

"Oops! Pardon me," the woman picked her purse off the floor which fell when John had given her a fright and as she stood up, John recognised her.

"Molly? What are you doing here?" John asked with a smile on his face. Molly returned his smile with one of her own when she realised who she had run into.

"Oh hello John. I was getting a last minute gift for my boyfriend. I thought of getting one later because he was supposed to be stationed overseas until New Year's but I got the call this morning from him before he boarded his flight so I had to run out here."

"Army man is he?" John asked. He might know the chap; he could protect Molly from making a bad choice in men if he did considering her previous attempts at a relationship.

"I'm not too sure honestly. I never asked," Molly replied as she walked towards the counter, John following along behind her, "So fancy running into you here. I didn't know you wore cologne."  
  
"I don't really. Greg's the one that does." John gave Molly a half hearted smile before Molly realised what she had accidentally brought up.

"Oh dear John. I'm sorry. I forgot about Lestrade being stuck in Paris. And here I was going on about my boyfriend being able to come back at the last minute." John shook his head at her, chuckling a little.

"It's quite alright Molly. I'm here on a case for Sherlock anyway." John explained as they approached the cashier. There was an old man standing behind the till with thick rimmed glasses perched on his nose. His hair was all but gone and whatever remained was a shade of bright silver, not too dissimilar to Greg's. John swallowed. The universe really was out to get him today.

"Are you that detective?" The man called out before John had even been able to open his mouth to explain anything. "Jim called me and told me you were coming. If this is about Dais, I'm not talking to you about the whiskey at all. I own an aromatics store and that's that." John raised an eyebrow at the man. Perhaps he hadn't had his cup of afternoon tea yet.

"Right and I don't drink whiskey. What can you tell me about Mr Dais? He's gone missing and I've got a string of clues leading me to you." The man who John assumed was Mr Banks looked extremely embarrassed now.

"Right. I didn't know that. Terribly sorry. So. Um. Dais wanted this whiskey as I've told you. It's very top secret considering how good the stuff is so it doesn't have much of a name. We had a code for it: 221B. And Dais is my best customer. Every month on the dot at noon on the 24th we have an order for him in here. But yesterday I couldn't get it in on time, what with the mad rush at the borders during Christmas and the freak snowstorm down in France. So he came up to me instead. He went on and on about how special it was to him that he had some for Christmas and without it there just wouldn't be anything special for Christmas." Mr Banks looked rather upset as he said all this. This made John rather suspicious of him.

"Why the long face Mr Banks? Surely something like this isn't too common."  
Mr Banks rolled his eyes, exasperated. John knew that look. It was the "are you stupid or just blind?" look. He had much experience with that from Sherlock.

"He was my **best** customer! Losing an order like that meant losing his loyalty and that means all his future business!" Mr Banks exclaimed. This must have been really top notch stuff if it meant so much to him. John felt a little sorry for him if he was going to be honest with himself.

"So, what happened after? Did you try to remedy it somehow?" John asked, digging a little deeper.

"I did. Or at least I tried to. I sent him round to this really nice little chocolate place I like to buy from. It didn't really do the trick but I think he went." John let out a sigh. This seemed like it was never going to end. If John was being honest, he found this case rather boring too. But he didn't have anything better to do since Lestrade was still stuck in France.

"I'm going to need that address then." Mr Banks nodded and went to fish for it.

"You know," Molly started to speak. John had almost forgotten about her standing there, "this is all a rather odd coincidence." John turned to look at her questioningly. Did she have something to do with this? What could she know?

"How do you mean Molly?"

"Well," she began, rubbing her neck awkwardly, "a dais is actually a raised platform used for VIPs. And in French it happens to be called L'estrade, just like Greg's surname. And Greg's stuck in France. And Mr Dais is missing. I dunno, I just found it all to be a funny little coincidence." This set John's mind to work, thinking about what Molly had said.

"How do you know what Greg's surname means though?"  
  
"I took French up to A Levels. It's frightfully helpful in a hospital, much more than you'd assume it to be." John was about to say something else when Mr Banks came back with a piece of paper, on which he had scribbled the address and name of the confectionary shop. John thanked him and bid goodbye to Molly before scampering off to find a taxi to take him there.

The journey seemed to be awfully long and by the time John had arrived, the sky had already darkened. The street lights gave the air a wonderful, merry look and the sounds of celebration and Christmas filled John's ears. John pulled his coat tighter around himself as a chilly breeze made him shiver. He looked up and down at the brightly lit street and couldn't see a single confectionary store. Pacing up and down, John suddenly encountered a single, lonely store that had closed up early. The shutters were down and the lights were turned off, even the decorative lights were switched off. Hanging above the store was a board that proudly proclaimed "Baker's Street Confections". John cursed himself. He was too late. Now he was probably supposed to go back to Sherlock only to have Sherlock mock his inability to solve a case as simple as this one.

John kicked at a small pile of snow that had collected on the pavement and sat down, defeated. The store looked sad and cold and lonely. John however, reckoned that when it was open it must have been absolutely magical and inviting. Warm perhaps. Everyone would've been so excited to pop in and grab a treat for the holiday.

Greg was fond of sweets, John remembered that. He always kept a small stash of sweets and biscuits for him in the kitchen to help calm Greg down whenever he got an episode of his panic or anxiety attacks. It wasn't emotional eating, but more of an ingrained calming technique that was formed due to his parents having used it when he was small.

When little Greg cried or was scared, his mum would let him have a small lolly. It almost always calmed him down and being the tough little spirit he was, Greg never cried just to get a sweet. Growing up, he associated treats with calming episodes and as a result rarely touched them for snacks. As he grew older, he found the joys of snacking and slowly he did eventually grow to lump happy occasions into the list of times he had sweets.

One of Greg's favourites that he reserved for either a special occasion or a severe meltdown was a little sphere of bitter dark chocolate that had a small burst of caramel inside once you had bitten into it. John had tried it once. It was after his first fight with Greg and it had triggered a really bad bout of anxiety for Greg. John remembered it very clearly. He closed his eyes and brought himself back to that memory

John felt all the anger he had against Greg immediately dissipate the moment he saw Lestrade drop to the floor, clutching the sofa like his life depended on it. His breathing had become deep and fast and his body had started trembling slightly. John knelt down in front of Greg, asking him what was wrong. He tried to calm Greg down by stroking his knee. John had started to panic too, though his years as a doctor and as a soldier had trained him not to react with the same. Greg merely pointed to a drawer and told him “chocolates”. John was confused but did as he was told anyways, bringing Greg the box of chocolates.

Greg opened the box and popped one into his mouth, closing his eyes. As he chewed, his breathing evened out and he stopped shaking. Eventually he opened his eyes and asked John for another. John willingly obliged, not asking questions.

“When I start to get attacks, I take a sweet. My mum used to do that with me when I cried as a lad and it calms me down. I take these,” Greg explained as he shook the box, “when it’s really bad. Have one.” Greg offered the box to John who willingly took one and threw it into his mouth. At first taste, the intense bitterness of the dark chocolate made John cringe and cough. Then as it melted, the sharp sweetness of the caramel oozed out and balanced the flavours together. It was rather enjoyable really.

“I eat this specific one when it’s bad because it reminds me that behind the bitterness, there’s always something sweet that I can look forward to. But I only get it if I can tough out the dark.” Greg explained with a slight smile. Later, John had teased him about the chocolate. He said that Greg loved those because they reminded him of himself: tough and dark on the outside but sweet and likeable inside. Few people got through to the inside and that’s why not many people liked what they tried.

As John ended the memory, the pieces suddenly fell together. Dais, Lestrade, France, Missing, Baker Street, 221B. John shot up quickly, his vision going white. He could almost see the words being spelled out before him. Of course. It was brilliant. Absolutely, _bloody brilliant._ And of course only Sherlock would’ve been able to do that. John ran up to a passing taxi, asking to be brought to Baker Street.

Upon arrival, John threw a wad of notes at the cabbie and told him to keep the change. John shot up the stairs two steps at a time. Landing at the top of the stairs, John noticed the difference in the front door almost immediately. There was a wreath of holly hanging on it and a string of lights at the top of the door. From inside, the faint sounds of Bobby Helms’ “Jingle Bell Rock” were playing. John took a deep breath and turned the door knob, pushing the door open gingerly.

“Sherlock?” John called out. As he pushed the door open wider, his eyes widened in disbelief. They hadn’t bothered with the decorations this year since they had decided not to hold a celebration at 221B due to Greg’s absence, but right here, right now, John was greeted by a flat that popped right out of a telly advertisement. The mantle had stockings hung up, fake snow and bells littering the tops. The fire was crackling in the fireplace, making the flat warm and cosy. Strings of tinsel hung down from the ceiling in different colours. Bursts of reds, greens and silvers zig zagged around the room in a messily thought out way. In the corner of the room near the fireplace was a medium sized tree, decorated with more tinsel, ornaments and a bright star on top. Underneath the tree was the customary pile of presents, with his large one for Greg sitting proudly on top.

As John approached the tree, he could see that the ornaments weren’t the only decorations on the tree. There were pictures clipped on too. One of Greg eating an ice cream cone, one of John laughing so hard his face was on the table, another one where Sherlock looked outraged as he hadn’t given permission for the picture, another had Mrs Hudson proudly holding up a freshly baked pie, another picture of Greg and John—asleep this time. As he recalled the memories they brought to him, John couldn’t help but smile to himself.

He then turned his attention to the dining table where an iPod still playing Christmas jingles sat with a whole turkey, ham, a pot of mashed potatoes, two large platters of vegetables, pudding, pie and ice cream among other foods. Candles were lit and one gave off a nice, sweet scent that smelt like a holiday. The plates and cutlery were arranged neatly. John recognised the folded napkin art as being Sherlock’s, while the fine China belonged to Mrs Hudson.

John heard footsteps from behind him. They were soft, but heavy. A man’s. From the sound of his footsteps and the speed of his gait, he was trying not to surprise John. John turned around, surprised but not shocked. Under the little knob of mistletoe that hung on the top of the doorframe too tall for John to reach, stood his own Lestrade.

Greg was beaming brightly at John. He wore a pair of reindeer antlers on his head and had on a new, white suit. It looked like it cost way more than what Greg was paid and if John was going to be truthful, he felt Mycroft might’ve had a part to play in that. John walked over to Greg unsteadily, his head foggy and senses heightened. It couldn’t be yet another dream, could it?

John reached out to touch Greg, his hands grasping at Lestrade’s arms firmly. Greg pulled John into a warm hug. John allowed his head to rest on Greg’s chest, listening to the familiar “lub-dub” of his heartbeat. John breathed in deeply, letting the earthy smell of Greg’s cologne fill his lungs. His hands crawled up Greg’s back into his soft, grey hair. It was a familiar feeling in his fingers. John tightened his grip on Greg, refusing to let go.

“Merry Christmas love. Sorry I was late,” Greg apologised, patting John on his head. John looked up at Greg, lost for words.

“Why are you here?” John asked meekly. Greg grinned at him, eyes sparkling. In John’s back pocket, his phone buzzed.

“Check your phone.” John pulled away and tugged his phone out from his pocket. There was a single new message. From Sherlock.

_Merry Christmas John. Enjoy your present, sorry it took a while to arrange. You’ll have five minutes before we arrive so I’d suggest you fully utilise them. —SH_

John smiled at his phone and looked up at Greg.

“So you’re my gift this year?” He couldn’t help but smile stupidly like a kid in a candy store.

“From Sherlock, yes.”

“But, how? How did you-”

“Mycroft. Sherlock took care of everything. He talked to Molly, Mycroft, the people at the shops. He left the breadcrumbs for you to follow and brought me back on a government plane last night. Mrs Hudson helped to get me ready and looking like this for you and Molly decorated with Sherlock’s help. We all knew how miserable you were when I told you and Sherlock just wanted to make you happy,” Greg explained. John didn’t say another word and simply pulled Greg in for another hug. From the hallway, the distant sounds of their friends’ voices could be heard. From the clicking, John assumed Molly had worn her nice red heels and the smell of butter told him Mrs Hudson had brought yet another batch of treats from her oven.

Greg tugged on John’s arm gently, nudging him to look up.

“We’re under the mistletoe, in case you didn’t notice.” Greg smiled at John. John looked up and saw that indeed they were. Ever a traditionalist, he pulled on Greg’s collar, planting a kiss right on his lips. He had everything he wanted for Christmas, and nothing could make him happier.

“Merry Christmas Greg.”

“Merry Christmas John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! I hope you've enjoyed the story! It was an absolute joy to write and imagine this :3. Maybe next year Greg could dress up as Santa Claus for a little fun with John hehe >.<


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